Page 33 of Homeport

She giggled at the thought of it, a sound so unprecedented she had to stop and catch her breath. She realized with a kind of jolt that she was happy. Really happy. That too was a rare thing. Content she often was, involved, satisfied, or challenged. But she knew simple happiness often eluded her.

It was marvelous to feel it now.

And why shouldn’t she? She slipped into a practical terry robe and smoothed her arms and legs with quietly scented body cream. She was interested in a very appealing man, and he was interested in her. He enjoyed her company, appreciated her work, found her attractive on both a physical and an intellectual plane.

He wasn’t intimidated, as so many were, by her position or her personality. He was charming, successful—to say nothing of gorgeous—and he’d been civilized enough not to press an obvious advantage and attempt to lure her into bed.

Would she have gone? Miranda wondered as she briskly dried off the foggy mirror. Normally the answer would have been a firm no. She didn’t indulge in reckless affairs with men she barely knew. She didn’t indulge in affairs period for that matter. It had been over two years since she’d had a lover, and that had ended so miserably she’d resolved to avoid even casual relationships.

But last night . . . Yes, she thought she could have been persuaded. Against her better judgment she could have been swayed. But he had respected her enough not to ask.

She continued to hum as she dressed for the day, choosing a wool suit with a short skirt and long jacket in a flattering shade of steel blue. She took care with her makeup, then let her hair tumble as it chose. In a last act of female defiance against the elements, she slipped into impractical heels.

She left for work in the chilly dark, and was still singing.

• • •

Andrew awoke with the mother of all hangovers. Not being able to stand his own whimpering, he tried to smother himself with pillows. Survival was stronger than misery, and he burst up, gasping for air and grabbing his head to keep it from falling off his shoulders.

Then he let go, praying it would.

He inched out of bed. As a scientist he knew it wasn’t possible for his bones to actually shatter, but he was afraid they might defy the laws of physics and do just that.

It was Annie’s fault, he decided. She’d gotten just annoyed enough with him the night before to let him drink himself blind. He’d counted on her to cut him off, as she usually did. But no, she kept slapping those drinks in front of him, every time he called for one.

He dimly remembered her shoving him into a cab and saying something pithy about hoping he was sick as three dogs.

She’d gotten her wish, he thought as he stumbled downstairs. If he felt any worse, he’d be dead.

When he saw there was already coffee, brewed and waiting, he nearly wept with love and gratitude for his sister. With hands that fumbled and trembled, he shook out four extra-strength Excedrin and washed them down with coffee that scalded his mouth.

Never again, he promised himself, pressing his fingers to his throbbing, bloodshot eyes. He would never drink to excess again. Even as he vowed, the slick longing for just one glass shuddered through him. Just one glass to steady his hands, to settle his stomach.

He refused it, telling himself there was a difference between overindulging and alcoholism. If he took a drink at seven A.M., he’d be an alcoholic. At seven P.M. now, it was fine. He could wait. He would wait. Twelve hours.

The ringing of the doorbell split through his skull like a keen-edged blade. He very nearly screamed. Instead of answering, he sat at the long trestle table there in the kitchen, laid his head down, and prayed for oblivion.

He’d nearly dozed off when the back door opened, letting in a frigid blast of air and an angry woman.

“I thought you’d be curled up somewhere feeling sorry for yourself.” Annie set a grocery bag on the counter, slapped her hands on her hips, and scowled at him. “Look at you, Andrew. A pitiful mess. Half naked, unshaven, bloodshot, and smelly. Go take a shower.”

He lifted his head to blink at her. “I don’t wanna.”

“Go take a shower while I fix your breakfast.” When he tried to lower his head again, she simply took a handful of his hair and dragged it up again. “You’re getting just what you deserve.”

“Jesus, Annie, you’re going to yank my head off.”

“And you’d feel considerably better if I could. You get your skinny butt out of that chair and go clean up—and use some industrial-strength mouthwash. You need it.”

“Christ Almighty. What the hell are you doing here?” He hadn’t thought there was room for embarrassment in the rage of the hangover, but he’d been wrong. He could feel the flush—a curse of his coloring—work up his bare chest toward his face. “Go away.”

“I sold you the liquor.” She let his hair go, and his head fell back onto the table with a thunk that made him howl. “You made me mad, so I let you keep drinking. So I’m going to fix you a decent breakfast, see that you get yourself cleaned up and go to work. Now go take a shower, or I’ll take you up and toss you in the tub myself.”

“Okay, okay.” Anything was better than having her nag at him. With what dignity he could muster in his boxer shorts, he rose. “I don’t want anything to eat.”

“You’ll eat what I fix you.” She turned to the counter and began unloading the bag. “Now get out of here. You smell like the floor of a second-class bar.”

She waited until she heard him shuffle away, then closed her eyes and leaned on the counter.

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